


all I want (is to be your harbor)

by Carthage



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dom/sub, M/M, Pining Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-06-11 04:31:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15307527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carthage/pseuds/Carthage
Summary: Shiro falls from the stars and meets a desert loner named Keith. They become two of the Paladins of Voltron, but Keith has little reason to trust any of his fellow pilots: a fear that may endanger the whole resistance. Shiro, attracted to this prickly yet undeniably skilled pilot, has to earn Keith’s trust while fighting a galactic war alongside him. Some things are never easy.(An AU where Keith missed the recruitment speaker that day at school and returned to the desert to search for the mysterious energy source calling to him. The war, and Shiro, still come to his door.)





	1. Chapter 1

Shiro jolts upright when he wakes. The narrow bed rattles against the wall, and the three young people in the room whirl around to stare at him. Oh, God.

They’re human. They’re _human_ , and the dim red light spilling across the patched quilt on top of his legs is dawn or dusk, and-

Relief chokes his throat, the same as a sob.

“Shiro! Oh my God, you’re awake-” the lean young man closest to him says, leaping off the couch. The couch wheezes a puff of dust into the sunbeams.

“Where are we? Who are you?”

“I’m Lance, that’s Hunk-” the Samoan teenager turns away from poking in the rickety kitchen cabinets with a crestfallen expression long enough to wave, “-and that’s Pidge.”

Oh. Matt’s younger sister, then, but isn’t her name-? She glares at him, cuts her eyes at the other two, and mouths, ‘ _Drop it_.’

Shiro blinks, reaches back into the past. Dimmed, now, in another life. “Lance, Hunk- you were… at the Garrison? With me?” A few years behind, but he can remember now, still frames: Hunk dancing backwards across the mats in self-defense class, afraid to punch, and Lance in basic sims.

“Yes!” Lance says, doing an abortive fistpump. “You were my inspiration, man, the reason I went for fighter class! Everyone knew who you were, even before-”

Shiro pushes himself a bit further upright. The mattress beneath him is thin, yet an unimaginable luxury. They’re not in the Garrison- some sort of shack? The only real furniture is the narrow cot he’s in, the couch, a board-and-cinderblock desk with electronics scattered across it, and what he assumes is a door to the bathroom set into the dingy kitchen. Light and air filter in through gaps in the walls.

“Whose house-?”

“Hannibal Lecter!” Hunk interrupts, wild-eyed. “This guy - we don’t know who he is, but he’s a really great pilot and he made me puke and he got us away from the Garrison - they were going to _lock you up_ \- and he has a _knife_ -”

Shiro looks to Pidge instead.

“Basically what Hunk said. We were on the Garrison roof and we saw your ship - escape pod - thing crash-land, and Lance dragged us down there.”

“And I was absolutely heroic and badass,” Lance cuts in. “I busted right in there and knocked those guys out-”

“-Not really.” Pidge frowns up at Lance from her seat on the floor, hands busy with her laptop. “But we got you off the table and started dragging you outside, and this guy on a bike plowed through the reinforcements. Outflew the whole Garrison, seemed like. Got us here, which I guess is his house? He’s not very talkative. His name’s Keith.”

Hunk shuts the last cabinet and flops onto the couch with a tragic wail. “And Keith is some sort of cannibal knife murderer, because there is, like, no food in this house, but he has some very nice knives, and also we are in the middle of nowhere, and no one knows where we _are_.”

Shiro peers down at himself to find that Keith-the-cannibal-knife-murderer has at least bothered to dress him. A black T-shirt and trousers, still dusty at the creases, as though packed away in storage. His right arm - what passes for it - whirs as he gets out of bed, and like a beacon it calls their attention, eyes darting from arm to hair to face. Not so much the Garrison’s Golden Boy anymore. Scarred, changed, their expectations heavy on his shoulders.

“So where is this Keith? I should thank him.”

"Outside,“ Pidge mutters around the screwdriver clenched in her teeth.

Shiro smiles at her, fends off Lance’s offers of an escort - ' _This could be some real 'Hills Have Eyes’ stuff, Shiro!_ ’- and opens the door. Dawn in the desert, warm light, wind carrying the scent of fading ozone, red sand plains sprawling in front of him to the basin walls-

Earth. He could cry.

A tattered windmill up a small rise, and parked beneath it a bright red bike - an antique, all curves and chrome, well-cared-for - and sprawled in the sand beneath the bike, a man.

Shiro approaches. Gravel rolls beneath his feet. At the sound the shadowed figure beneath the bike wriggles free, stands. Peers down the rise at Shiro, limned in crimson light, and-

' _You didn’t say he was_ _beautiful_ ,’ Shiro thinks at Pidge, half-betrayed, because Keith-the-cannibal-knife-murderer is objectively lovely: wild dark hair, pale eyes, an intense cut-glass face, lips pressed into a thin white line. Strung taut, near-quivering, as he watches Shiro approach, but not fear - only a wariness, something untamed and distrustful about him.

"Keith,” Shiro starts, finds it easy to smile and offer a hand, “I’m told I have you to thank for the rescue.”

Keith’s gaze drops to Shiro’s hand - oh, shit, the right hand - and Shiro licks his lips, is about to apologize, withdraw, but Keith’s shoulders jerk up around his ears, his gaze hardens-

He grabs Shiro’s hand in a bruisingly strong grip and then looks, all at once, overwhelmed: pale and hard-edged and near-shaking. A raw nerve, or a million of them, concentrated in the space where their fingers overlap. His grip twitches. His eyes dart to Shiro’s face, then their joined hands, then he drops Shiro’s hand like it’s on fire and springs back.

"You’re welcome,“ Keith mumbles at last, his voice hoarse with disuse.

Oh, _no_. Even his _voice_ is beautiful.

“I’m Takashi Shirogane. Please, call me Shiro.”

Keith nods, his gaze direct, no flinch or retreat in him, no anger at the man who lost Kerberos. It hits Shiro all at once - this man doesn’t know him, doesn’t look at him and see a wreck, a revenant returned from the grave, or a victim. Just a man. A hard black clot in his chest eases. He breathes. Asks,

“How’d you know to find me?”

Keith’s attention moves past Shiro to the shack, and Shiro turns in time to see three heads duck out of the window. Honestly, they could at least _try_ to seem stealthy.

Keith leans back against the bike in an easy sprawl of long limbs, one hand settling into what seems to be its customary position on a knife at his belt. His jaw works before he speaks, and his eyes scan Shiro’s face as if searching for cruelty. “Been hunting an energy source that led me to some carvings in a cave. They talked about an arrival when the stars were right, as they were last night. I followed the directions and found you.” His mouth twists, attention dipping back to the house below. “And them.”

“They said you were a great pilot,” Shiro offers, as if to defend his… friends? comrades? with bribes of compliments. “I know these hoverbikes, they’re not easy to control.” He smiles, a bit rueful. “Especially when overloaded with three other passengers and one dead weight.”

Keith’s gaze warms, a tiny crack in his veneer. “The dead weight was the easiest part. The passengers were the ones that strained the ion engines.”

Shiro glances at the rearmost engine and winces. Scorch marks trail upward along the hull from the ion ring, signs of the hoverbike struggling to compensate for the excessive weight and gravity.

"Going cliff-jumping didn’t help, I’m sure. Sounds like an incredible maneuver, though; wish I’d been awake to see it. How’d you learn to pilot so well?“

Wrong question, or a step too far; the crack in Keith’s composure seals over, a hint of heated annoyance washing across his face. "Nowhere.”

 Shiro has to be careful - he casts about for something to say, finds inspiration in the excavated depression beneath the bike, the shape of a human form.

“Did you have to sleep out here?” There’s only the one cot, and Shiro had taken up all the space. “I’m sorry.”

Keith snorts. Even the way he wrinkles his nose is absurdly charming. “Don’t be. They’re so loud, I slept better outside. Done it before.” The corner of his mouth twitches upward, as close to an expression as Shiro’s gotten from him. A flicker of warmth in his dry voice. “Besides, they slept better without the cannibal around.”

"Oh. You, ah, heard that.“

"Hard not to.” Keith frowns. “How long were you in space?”

An odd question; his shack is within driving distance of the Garrison, so shouldn’t he be aware of Kerberos? Still, Shiro shouldn’t judge.

"About a year and a half; five months out to Kerberos, and then a year with the Galra, but I don’t remember what I was doing with them.“ A pause. "Did you… not hear about the Kerberos mission?”

A beat of silence. Keith’s level gaze, the drum of those elegant fingers against the steel hull of the bike. “No.”

Well. That’s definitive. What to say, how to keep the conversation moving-

"Shiro!“ Lance calls from the porch below. "He hasn’t killed you yet, has he? We just got you back!”

Shiro winces, and Keith takes pity on him. “Let’s go inside.” He pushes off the bike and walks in a wary arc past Shiro, careful, still, to stay just out of reach. As they descend the hill, gravel rolling beneath their boots, Keith’s stride shortens, his shoulders hunching inward - no surprise, really, that a hermit isn’t looking forward to returning to his despoiled sanctuary.

Shiro trails after, guilt in the pit of his stomach. The guilt isn’t helped by Lance’s questions the moment they climb the step to the porch.

" _Dude_ , how long have you been out here? That map is intense. What’s this energy source? Why’re you out here anyway? There’s nothing around for miles! Pidge can barely get a satellite signal, and I’ve literally never seen that happen before. Also Hunk tried to open that can of baked beans in your cabinet and he _mayyy_ have snapped one of your knives. Just a _teensy_ bit.“ 

"I’m out here to avoid stupid questions like that,” Keith snaps, “and I- what? What knife?” He shoulders Lance out of the way and storms into the cabin to find Hunk whimpering and clutching his bleeding hand, beans strewn across the kitchen floor. His shoulders sag, and Shiro, bending to get the first aid kit from beneath the sink, stuffs down the urge to apologize.

* * *

 The rising sun beats down on the back of Shiro's neck as he swings a leg over the hoverbike saddle, settling in between Hunk and the driver's saddle. Pidge and Lance, crowded onto the wings, strapped in with makeshift belts and holding onto a backpack and Hunk's detector respectively, already look disgruntled.

"You sure we'll all fit on this? We barely survived last time," says Hunk.

Keith closes the hatch in the bike's wing and rises to his feet, dusting sand off his jeans. "Should be fine. The terrain between here and the carvings isn't too bad." He flips the screwdriver in his hand back into the toolbox at the windmill's base and closes the lid, effortlessly graceful.

Hunk and Lance stare at each other in mute concern about Keith's idea of 'not bad,' but they don't say anything before Keith rounds the bike and stops by Shiro's knee. A beat, Keith's jaw tightening as if to prepare himself for the contact of another person. Before any of them can say anything, he vaults into the saddle.

The bike roars to life, rising from the gravel, as Keith bends low to grab the handlebars. The back of his neck glitters pale through the dark fringe of his hair, slicked to his skin with sweat. One thigh, corded with lean muscle even through his jeans, presses into the inside of Shiro's. The dip of his narrow waist slips just past Shiro's forearm as he leans his weight into the bike to turn it towards the mesas in the distance.

"Y'all settled in?" The sudden twang of an accent tugs at Shiro's heart, another clue to an unknown story.  

A chorus of affirmations that rises into a howl of protests from Lance and Hunk as Keith twists the accelerator and guns the bike towards the horizon. The wind tears their protests away, and Shiro locks his knees tight against the saddle and holds on for all he's worth.

Eventually Lance and Hunk run out of air and Shiro is able to settle in, to enjoy the ride. The others are looking around at the desert passing by, pointing out the tracks of quail and coyotes, but Shiro's attention is riveted to the motions of Keith's hands and feet.

Shiro's seen and taught a lot of decent to good pilots in the simulators at the Garrison, kids who were technically proficient and able to pull off some risky maneuvers through hundreds of hours of practice, but Keith's not just a great pilot -

He's an incredible one, raw talent burning bright; he throws the bike through narrow slot canyons like he's been born to it, slews it around the hairpin curves of dry riverbeds with only the twist of his hips - okay, how is he that strong?- and a twitch of his fingers on the throttle.

Shiro's fingers practically ache to interlace themselves with Keith's on the handlebars, see if he can feel what Keith feels, the shifts in vibration that let Keith know when to shift gears or feed more to the ion generators. God, if Shiro could get him in a simulator or on a proper high-speed racing bike- the things he could do, with just a little training, an instructor matched to his potential, because that would be the struggle, wouldn't it? Shiro had outstripped his flying instructors by the time he was sixteen, had resigned himself to randomly generated simulations to keep his skills honed.

Keith's impatient, at times, with the limitations of his vehicle, the bike protesting some of the maneuvers he pushes it through. No wonder his toolbox had been so well-stocked; flying like this isn't what most commercial vehicles, much less an antique like this, are meant for. His expression, what little of it Shiro can see through the cloud of his hair, is fixed, intensity burning in his narrowed gaze, but his body is loose against Shiro's, comfortable, at home amid the wind and the swirling clouds of sand they leave in their wake. Born to pilot, in a way Shiro's only seen in himself before.

So much potential, so much untapped talent- what the _hell_ is this guy doing out alone in the desert?

* * *

Okay. So.

They're in space who-knows-how-far from Earth after flying there in a giant robot lion, have woken up a ten-thousand year-old space princess, and now they've got to get the black lion out of its hibernation.

And Shiro is apparently able to use his right hand as a weapon that can punch straight through metal. Can't forget that. Not that he can, Pidge has been agog over it ever since he took out those drones. Shiro has been more concerned about the alarms that started wailing soon after they separated from Keith, a sick clot of fear in his throat at the idea of Keith being caught. They could mount a rescue mission, but he'll need to coordinate with the others for that.

Pidge scrambles to the green lion's controls and disengages from the Galra ship. She accelerates away towards Arus, but an alarm has her whipping back towards the ship. A pointer flickers on the heads-up-display, glittering red, indicating-

Out in the void, tumbling between the stars, a small figure of red and white, so tiny against the vastness of space-

Keith? The _hell-_

The Galra ship shudders as a glowing paw carves a hole in its hull. The red lion bursts forth, silhouetted against the explosion, and swoops towards the spinning figure to swallow him up.

"I," Shiro says, "am going to have a very long talk with him about leaping into danger."

Pidge raises her eyebrows at him. "Yeah, okay, good luck with that, bet he'll be just _dying_ to have a talk with you." She twists in time to see the red lion speed towards the Arusian atmosphere and toggles communications with the others. "Kitty Rose has left the stage. Meet you at the Castle."

They land in good order. Shiro follows Pidge out of the lion's mouth and surveys the others. Hunk and Lance look good, a little queasy on Hunk's part, but no injuries. Keith-

" _Dude_ ," Lance says, eyes wide. "What happened to you?"

Keith is a mess. One side of his jaw is a patchwork of bruising from a punch that probably drove his helmet into the skin, his lip split. "Galra didn't want to give Red up," he says, and folds his arms. His stance betrays him, most of his weight on his left leg, right held gingerly against the deck.

They might have to have a talk about being honest about injuries, it seems.

Still, Shiro doesn't have time to talk just yet; he has a lion to meet.

* * *

They form Voltron.

They win. 

* * *

_Dark hair slicked with sweat, clinging to a pale neck. A low voice - "Shiro, come_ on _!" melting into a moan at his teasing, “Can’t you take it, baby?” - heat - elegant fingers wrapped around him - the slope of his shoulder - trembling thighs, all that strength captive at his word, clenched about his waist as he drives into yielding flesh, resistance subsumed into trusting submission -_

Shiro jolts awake. His pajamas stick to his chest with sweat, his pillow damp beneath his face. His hips jerk against the bed, his blood a roar in his ears. Slick in his underwear.

He.

He's hard.

He'd thought-

He'd thought he'd never feel this again. Not bad enough to be captured by the Galra, to be remade into whatever this Champion was, made a weapon, but to lose even this most basic part of him, the desire for others, the ability.

He rolls onto his back, bites back the groan as cloth shifts across his cock. Keeps his eyes closed - can't lose this, this brief moment, with worry and guilt.

 _Oh_. Of course. He'd been dreaming of Keith. He can't be surprised. That spark of fire in his eyes, the vicious potential of him, slim waist beneath his hand, lean body all whip-cord tight with strength.

His left hand slips beneath the sheets, beneath the waistband of his boxers. He sighs as he finds them damp, the sound nearing a sob of relief as he curls his fingers about himself, thumb catching his foreskin. A slow pulse of heat rolls through his body, settles in his belly.

_Those gloved hands, knuckles scarred with fights, how they might flex and loosen beneath his lips; plush bottom lip between Shiro's teeth, and the surprised twist of those hips beneath Shiro's hands at the teasing pressure of his teeth-_

_Keith laid out for him like a feast in the moonlight, his wrists held still by Shiro's word, Shiro playing him like an instrument, coaxing him higher, keeping him from rushing into heedless climax, teaching him patience, the joy of trust-_

His hips rise into his fist, breath catching in his throat.

_Those violet eyes gazing up at him, liquid, dark, pliancy with a threat of stubborness, never truly tamed- a low voice, raw in longing, "Yes, sir-"_

He arches off the bed and drenches his knuckles with his spend, falls back to loll against the pillows, chest heaving.

Shiro swallows, stares thunderstruck at the ceiling.

So. He's fully functional, and all that returned need and desire is aimed at one mysterious man from the desert who'd as soon punch him as look at him.

There's a lot of repression, and working out, in his future.


	2. Chapter 2

Shiro looks up from what Hunk has optimistically termed 'dinner' in time to see Keith shove his chair back from the table, stalk over to the trashcan, and scrape all the remaining goo on his plate into the trash. A muscle twitches in his bruised jaw.

"Remember when Hawkins totally crashed and burned on that asteroid field quiz?" Lance says, leaning back in his chair. "Professor Reyes was waiting for him to come out what seemed like hours, and finally she said, what was it..."

"'If mankind is under attack by aliens, we'll use your simulation run as a torture device!'" Pidge chimes in.

Behind them, Keith closes the dishwasher and leaves the room on silent feet, shoulders stiff.

Hunk swallows his mouthful of food goo. "Hey, uh, guys, maybe we should stop talking about the Garrison all the time? Seems a little unfair to people who can't be part of the conversation." He nods at Keith's empty seat across the table. "See, he left again."

Lance frowns and stabs at a piece of goo, the tines of his fork screeching across the plate. "Well, it's not like he's that friendly a guy. I tried to talk to him about piloting and he blew me off." He huffs. “And I’m a great conversationalist!”

"I'll go talk to him." Shiro stands, dinner mostly eaten, and shakes the remainder into the trash. He never thought he'd miss the Garrison cafeteria's meals, but life is full of surprises. Besides, even he's getting tired of the Garrison gossip; it mostly reminds him of how long he's been away, of the people who were all too willing to believe that Kerberos failed because of him. Or worse, the ones who knew differently; knew the truth, and still toed the party line.

To his left, a row of lights illuminate a hallway: must be the one Keith went down, since the Castle only powers the sections in use at any given moment. He follows the path, his steps echoing off the empty halls, louder than the faint hum of unknown machinery far below. He passes doors often, once a small room set up like a movie theater: another sign that this ship was meant to hold hundreds. Hundreds of Alteans, and instead it hosts only two, the last survivors of a fallen kingdom. The back of his neck prickles with goosebumps.

At last the lights guide him to another set of double doors. Faint light seeps through the cracks. God, he hopes Keith doesn't throw him back out immediately. Coran and Allura have been making ominous sounds about the five of them needing to build trust between each other, and that would be a terrible start. The doors slide open, admitting him to what looks like an observation deck: chairs and tables, a vast pane of curved glass, the Arusian seas beyond.

Keith, in the chair nearest the glass, rolls his head back to see Shiro, then turns back to the ocean. It rolls away into the distance in a wrinkled blanket of deep purple and black, and above it, the stars are fading into view.

"Mind if I come in?" Shiro advances a few steps into the room. His heart twists inside his ribcage.

Keith mutters, "Suit yourself." He nods at the chair nearest his in silent invitation, watching Shiro sit with narrowed eyes. The split lip and bruised face give him a dangerous air, incongruous with the relaxed sprawl of his limbs across the chair.

"Thanks." Shiro relaxes back into the cushions with a sigh. How long has it been since he got to do this: just sit? The ocean spreads before him, marked by the pale gray crests of waves, and even this high, he can hear the faint hum of its crashing upon the shore.

A comfortable silence unfurls between them, broken only by the waves, the irregular cawing of Arusian wildlife. At intervals, Keith fidgets with something small and metallic in his hands, but if he senses Shiro's gaze on him he doesn't look back.

"Are you okay?" Shiro says at last, keeping his voice hushed. "Leaving Earth, being pulled into all this - it can't be easy."

Keith's thumb flicks faster on the item - oh, one of those fidget rings - at his voice. "I'm fine." The ring rattles ever louder.

“It’s okay,” Shiro says, “to not be okay with this. I don’t think any of us went into the desert expecting space lions that turn into giant robot men who fight evil.” A tiny part of him cheers at Keith’s soft laugh.

Keith’s thumb stills on the ring and he folds his arms closer against himself. "I really am fine. There wasn't anything left on Earth for me. I mean, my bike, yeah, but Red more than makes up for that." A furtive glance at Shiro, as if searching for pity, and then he loosens, finding none.

"Not for me, either."

Keith twists to gaze at him, openly curious, then makes a small sound of acknowledgement as he turns back to the sea. Surprising, that he doesn't charge forward with questions; most people do.

"My parents passed when I was small," Shiro continues, the memories callused over now with time, "and my grandfather passed away when I was nineteen, right after I was admitted to the officer track at the Garrison." The offering falls between them, and Shiro waits in the silence, gazing out at unknown constellations.

Beside him, the rattle of the metal spinning around the ring starts again. Then, Keith shifts, says, "My father died when I was nine. My mother wasn't around." The words are brittle, hard-edged.

Shiro nods, turns enough to see Keith looking back. "Did you get your house from your father?"

Keith's mouth twitches into something approaching a smile. "Nah. I inherited his firefighter's pension and his bike, but his place got sold off. I picked the house for myself. Wasn't much, but the bills were cheap, and the pension covered most of it."

"Smart," Shiro says. Most eighteen-year-olds, upon inheriting money, would blow it on short-term needs and wants; he'd spent an embarrassing amount of his inheritance on a fancy leather jacket. God, he misses that thing. "How'd you cover the balance?"

"Mechanical work, mostly; Arroyo Township had enough people driving beaters that I could always find jobs." Keith turns away, his attention returning to the shoreline. "Why'd you follow me?" Blunt, a quality Shiro respects. He's had enough of propaganda.

"I noticed you left every time they start bringing up the Garrison. Wanted to know if you were okay, or if we need to knock off talking about the Garrison. I imagine it can be pretty irritating, being on the outside like that."

Keith shrugs. "It doesn't bother me." His thumb is a pale blur that belies his easy tone.

"Did you apply? You must know you're an amazing pilot. I could help you, if you wanted it." Shiro means the offer honestly - anyone who can fly Red the way Keith does deserves a spot in the fighter class - but he realizes all too quickly that he's stuffed his foot right down his own throat.

Keith freezes. His hands tense, the creak of his gloves loud in the sudden silence. He slips the ring back into one of his belt pouches, then turns to face Shiro, folding his arms. His brows knit together into a thunderous frown.

"Look, Shiro." His voice cuts into Shiro's chest: flat, even a little bored, as though he's said this before. "You're a nice guy. Maybe too nice, all things considered. But I've heard all this before."

Huh?

"That you... should apply to the Garrison?" Shiro ventures.

"Or the Air Force, or that if I just apply myself, or that if I just let people help me - all of it." Keith's voice rises, one hand raking back through his hair, the other chopping at the air. "Everyone says it, no one means it, so let's just cut out all the bullshit and agree to disagree, all right? You stay out of my way and I'll stay out of all of yours."

Shiro blinks at him. He isn't even sure what expression is on his own face right now other than bewilderment, maybe a tinge of hurt. "I don't think Voltron works that way. We'll have to work together and trust each other."

At the word 'trust,' Keith's nostrils flare, his frustrated snarl audible. "It may have escaped your notice, Shiro, but I'm not good with people, and at this point I'm fine with that. You know I'm not an easy guy to work with."

"I _don't_ know," Shiro says softly, and his words make Keith freeze, startled. "You took four people you didn't know into your house without knowing anything other than that they needed help. And then when I left you on the Galra ship, you didn't yell or throw a fit - and you should have, really, I was abandoning you on an alien warship - you're stuck in a weird situation, light-years from home with people you don't even know, and you're _still_ doing your best."

Keith's inhale cuts the stillness between them. His fingers twist into the black denim of his jeans, shoulders a stiff line. "Fine. Whatever," he says, his voice unsteady, for some reason completely unbalanced. Has no one ever just let him be angry and responded calmly?

Still. Might be time to beat a tactical retreat.

Shiro stands from the chair and turns to go, pausing by where Keith is huddled, frowning up at him. "I've not seen a single thing from you that makes me believe you wouldn't excel in the Garrison, Keith. You have such potential, and if you'd chosen to take that chance, you’d make one of the best pilots the Garrison ever produced." He reaches down, settles his hand on Keith's shoulder.

Keith's whole frame seems to press back, all that shocking strength and intensity concentrated in the swell of muscle beneath Shiro's fingers. Then, as suddenly as he rose into Shiro's palm, he subsides at the firm squeeze of Shiro's hand, his breath a sigh, all that rising tension released. He blinks, licks his lips, seems bewildered by his own response.

Shiro gazes at Keith until he gets Keith's full attention, violet eyes steady, foreign stars alight in his gaze.

"When we get back to Earth, if you want it, if you'll let me, I will get you into the Garrison by hook or by crook. And even if you decide that it's not for you-" he rests his thumb on Keith's collarbone, feels the wild pulse beneath the skin, "-you will always have someone who believes in you, even when you don't." He lets go, steps back, Keith tilting in his direction as if already missing the contact. "Good night, Keith."

Keith swallows. Uncurls, and offers an attempt at a smile that makes Shiro’s breath catch in his chest. "Good night, Shiro."

* * *

 

Shiro should start trusting his instincts for trouble more. Coran and Allura were absolutely serious about forcing the paladins to trust each other, and they are resorting to... interesting methods.

The drones are an unmitigated disaster. Hunk flinches and gets Pidge knocked out immediately before being knocked out himself, Lance at least backs straight into Shiro so they can cover each other's back, and Keith-

Keith charges the drones in a wild rush, no thought to defense, only a brutal wave of aggression. He launches himself up, shield held above his face, and smashes into one of the drones, knocking it off-course. Then he hits the ground in a blur of red, rolls into the wall, and uses the momentum to spring at another one, heedless of his previous injuries.

"That is _not_ the point of the exercise, Number Two!" Coran bellows from above, startling Lance into getting hit and dropping into the floor.

Keith's shield flickers out of existence just as he meets the drone, and he sails past it with, were Shiro able to appreciate it, a hilarious expression of utter betrayal. A laser tags Keith, and he drops beneath the floor as he lands.

Shiro drops his shield and lets himself be hit to the sound of Coran's wild laughter.

* * *

The maze, at least, gives reason for hope.

Pidge forgets that Hunk's strides are far longer than hers and steers him straight into a wall. Several times. But Hunk, at least, is a gentle sort, and escapes the maze with only a few scorch marks once he and Pidge do some calculations to convert Altean units of distances to metric.

Lance and Hunk, thankfully, are about the same height and trust each other implicitly, so no problem there. Lance makes it through the maze in record time, with his only shock coming from Hunk steering him into a wall right after he makes a crack about Yellow's speed.

Shiro, watching as Hunk marches out of the control room muttering, manages to beat Lance inside. "Hey, Coran?"

"What can I do for you, Number One?"

"Can you swap me with Lance? I'd like to direct Keith through the maze. I think it's necessary to our team-building." Shiro was, or is, right-handed, and he needs Keith to trust him if Voltron is to respond effectively on that side: important, considering it's the side with their main offensive weapon.

Coran nods, looking pleased that Shiro's thought ahead. "If you think so. Here's the headset."

Shiro settles it on his head and steps forward to watch Keith below. The monitors in front of Coran beep, showing heightened stress levels, as Keith twists back and forth, no doubt trying to memorize the maze before it disappears.

"Keith?"

He may be flattering himself to imagine that Keith's shoulders relax at the sound of his voice.

"Yeah." Tension throbs in his voice, his arms stiff at his side. Trying to seem okay, and failing miserably.

"You ready to give this a try?" Shiro watches the maze fade out of view below and fade into view on the screen before him.

"I can do it," Keith says immediately, taking a step forward, then another. He must have been able to memorize the path closest to him, then. His hands clench into fists, awaiting the shock.

"You could," Shiro agrees.

Coran's jaw drops. He waves at Keith below, surrounded, and then flails at Shiro and the map in front of him, moustache twitching in time with his inarticulate protests.

"It would hurt a hell of a lot, and you'd probably miss lunch, but you could fight your way out of this alone," Shiro continues, watching Keith proceed with careful steps.

Coran, mollified, stills.

"I don't need help," Keith snaps, but then he pauses. His ragged breathing drowns out everything around Shiro, a low rasp of indecision, tinged with the grinding of teeth. He turns from one side, then to another. Takes a step forward and swallows down a groan, reeling back. Electricity sparks along his side, and Shiro winces.

"Keith."

"What." Flat, resigned. To what? Humiliation? Does he truly think Shiro would laugh at him? Is he so determined to be alone that he would rather hurt himself than trust anyone to help him?

"If you truly want to do this on your own, I'm not going to stop you." Shiro swallows, chooses his next words with excruciating care. "But I'm not going to leave you to suffer through this alone."

Below, Keith lifts his head. He peers up at the control room, and Shiro places his hand on the glass and meets his gaze.

"Whether you trust me to help you or not, I'm going to stand right here until you're finished, because I care about you. I can't force you to let me help you, but I _will_ ask, and I will _always_ hope that someday I will earn that trust."

Coran mimes applause in the corner of Shiro's eye, but he has no attention to spare for it, all of his being fixed on the small fierce figure below.

Keith's hands, clenched into trembling fists, loosen. His swallow is loud in Shiro's headset. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"All right. Which way?"

"Two steps right," Shiro answers, and hopes the catch in his voice goes unnoticed.

* * *

"No secrets between Paladins," Coran whispers in ostensible encouragement over the loudspeakers during the meditation activity.

Lance makes the mistake of meeting Hunk's eyes and the two of them break into giggles, elbowing each other and wheezing something about Professor Montgomery's chair. The floating screens in front of them flicker with something that looks like a brownie.

Shiro doesn't even want to know.

"Guys. Focus," he orders, and stares until they settle back and close their eyes before closing his own. He slows his breathing, lets his thoughts empty.

The taste of meat spreads, rich and savory, across the back of his tongue, a female voice, ' _Mi querida, prueba la ropa vieja, por favor_ ,'- toes curling into white sand beaches - rough-hewn hands ruffling his hair as he protests, ' _Tio_ , nooooo' -

Too-big hands thrust into the engine of a vacuum cleaner, feeling for the broken coil - a friendly shove from his brother, 'Hunk, c'mon, we have to go dig the _umu_ if you want a _luau_ later' - stacks of science textbooks -

'Grandpa, Polaris has to go _there_ ,' pointing at his ceiling, hands full of plastic stars - 'Mr. Shirogane, we found your grandson doing dangerous stunts on that bike _again_!' - the curves of the ship that would take him to Kerberos -

A small bedroom at the top of the house, stuffed to bursting with computer parts - a picture, flickering, brothers - the code breaks, dissolves -

A garbage bag clutched in his arms that holds everything in the world - a knife, too big for his hand - an infinite emptiness -

"Pidge, is that your _girlfriend_?" Lance says, and Shiro opens his eyes to find his unconventional soldiers squabbling about head holes and secrets. Pidge is going to have to reveal herself sooner rather than later, if this is going to keep them from forming Voltron.

Keith blinks down at his arms, curled in front of him - as if holding a garbage bag, and Shiro’s heart breaks a little more - then shakes himself, leans back with an irritated sigh to watch Pidge storm out.

Okay. A break might be necessary.

* * *

The gladiator is best not talked about.

* * *

Shiro wakes up when someone walks past his door. Okay. He’d best see who it is, just in case. Probably paranoid, but then he never sleeps well anymore - hasn’t since Kerberos - and once woken it’s not likely he’ll be able to fall asleep again.

He follows the trail of dimming lights back to the training room and leans around the door.

Keith looks up from where he’s rolled out a mat and taken a seat, bare-armed, his white tank top slipping off one muscled shoulder. He meets Shiro’s eyes, then looks back down at where he’s wrapping his hands.

Encouraged, Shiro closes the distance between them and takes a seat on the mat to watch Keith work. “Can’t sleep?” Keith’s hand wrappings are practiced, near-professional; he obviously has some experience with self-defense, even if it’s not Garrison standard.

Keith ties off one of his hands and flexes his long fingers. His forearm, dusted with light hair, is splotched with forming bruises, no doubt from the gladiator. “Ship’s too noisy.” He glances up at Shiro, takes in what is probably an awful case of bedhead and rumpled clothes, and grimaces. “Ah, shit, I woke you, didn’t I? Sorry, I’ll take a different way next time.”

“It’s not a problem. I don’t sleep well at the best of times.”

“Still.” Keith rises to his feet, graceful even bruised and sore, exhaustion in his eyes. “Sorry.”

Shiro tilts his head back to gaze up at Keith, the dark fringe of his hair, the hint of stubble along his jaw. “Again, no problem. But why train at this hour?”

Keith raises his fists, tosses a few exploratory punches. “The gladiator kicked my ass. I’m out of practice - been a while since I bothered to practice martial arts.” His left arm moves a bit slower, stiff from the maze earlier that day if Shiro had to venture a guess. Keith blows out a frustrated breath and rotates his shoulder, glancing down at Shiro. “It looked like when you and the others fought - well, when Pidge and Hunk _tried_ , at least - that you all had the same style. Some sort of Garrison thing?”

Shiro stands and reaches for the leftover tape, bites off two lengths. “You thought right. Engineers, like Pidge and Hunk, take two semesters of self-defense at a minimum, but they can take more if they choose to. I tried to convince Hunk to take boxing, but he refused, sadly. Pilots, like Lance, take four semesters, and if you’re on the officer track, like me, you take at least six, along with several leadership, survival, and evasion classes.” He finishes wrapping his hands, then reaches for the bottom of his shirt and pulls it off, leaving him in only shorts and tank-top. “The standard course is a mix of Krav Maga and Brazilian jiu-jitsu, but officers take some other courses.”

Keith’s attention seems glued to the scars on Shiro’s chest, before the sudden silence has him glancing back up at Shiro. “What’d you take?”

“Boxing and karate, mostly.” Shiro rolls his shoulders, sets his feet wide apart. Frustrated energy thrums through him; he’s awake, his body resigned now to activity. “I could teach you the Garrison style, if you want to learn. For now, want to spar?”

Keith’s grin is a glittering blade in the dim room, his voice low. “I thought you’d never ask.” He looks Shiro over, studying his stance, then seems to shake himself. “No strikes to the head, three taps to yield?”

“Fine with me,” Shiro says, and watches Keith move to the edge of the mat. His stride is predatory, loose, the roll of his spine drying Shiro’s mouth. Shiro lifts his fists in preparation.

Keith gives no warning - characteristically surges across the mat so quick it seems unreal, a flurry of blows that Shiro dodges. He’s strong, quick; he plays his cards close, manages to stay mostly out of range of Shiro’s counterattacks, but he’s impatient, can be drawn in to expose weak points.

They grapple, block - Keith eludes Shiro’s takedowns, manages to kick him hard in the ribs, but Shiro is patient, willing to endure the pain to get Keith tired out, making sloppy mistakes. Their panting fills the training room. Keith catches Shiro’s eye, his grin lovely in its recklessness. He strikes for Shiro’s gut, assumes - like so many do - that because Shiro’s strong he can’t also be fast -

Shiro pivots out of the way of the punch, uses the momentum to swing into a leg sweep. Keith manages to flow out of the way - God, he’s flexible - and grabs for Shiro’s shoulder as he rises out of the sweep-

Shiro finds himself blinking at the overhead lights. Ah. Right. It’s easy to forget, looking at Keith’s slender frame, his incredible strength. An unusual strength, too - you’d think he’d be bulkier.

“C’mon, Shiro, tired already?” Keith goads, coming into view overhead. Sweat beads along the hollow of his throat, his eyes alight, his cheeks pink -

Beautiful.

Shiro grins, enjoying the sudden widening of Keith’s eyes, then lunges, Keith too close, too cocky, to escape in time. He cinches Keith’s wrist in one hand, uses his weight to tug Keith off-balance. Pulls him into the mat, rolls on top, drags the captured arm behind Keith’s back, leans his weight into the center of Keith’s upper back, between his shoulder blades. The hammerlock’s an effective submission hold, and he waits for Keith to realize he’s not getting out of it, heart pounding in triumph in his ears.

Keith snarls, kicks out, and all of a sudden Shiro has a wild thing caged in his arms - he’s writhing, striking back with his elbow until Shiro manages to catch that arm with his free arm, hold it caught-

“Keith, yield.” He places a bit more pressure on the hammerlock, but that only makes Keith more feral, his struggle more savage. Their breathing clouds the air between them, Keith’s sweat-slick back rubbing against Shiro’s chest, his legs caught by Shiro’s and still pressing against Shiro’s weight, vicious in his refusal to acknowledge his defeat.

Shiro drops all of his weight on Keith, presses him to the mat.

" _Yield_ ,” Shiro demands against Keith’s ear, his voice raw and unrecognizable even to himself, an eager desire in it that embarrasses him to hear. He intensifies the hold, just a bit, but then Keith _whines_ , presses back against the length of Shiro’s body, shudders-

Falls still, coiled tight, waiting. “I yield,” Keith says, voice soft, blurred at the edges, a faint rasp as though he’s just awoken, as though Shiro’s been lucky enough to have him in his bed.

Shiro lets go. Sits back on his heels and watches Keith push himself up onto hands and knees, then back into a kneel. Keith blinks, turns toward Shiro. His eyes, full dark now, look Shiro straight in the face, and then glance away, his face suddenly glowing brick-red, as if humiliated-

Oh, _no._

Keith looks back, pins Shiro in place. The air in the room chills as Keith’s jaw tightens, his brows knitting tight. “I _never_ lose,” Keith says, fire humming in his voice.“And then you- and your hands- you show up and you _beat_ me, you make me _weak-_ ” he practically spits the words, self-loathing in every syllable, rage in the way his muscles string tight beneath the skin. “You  _beat_ me."

Before Shiro can say anything, Keith shoves himself to his feet and heads for the door. Pauses at the threshold, turns back, unexpectedly shy before squaring his shoulders. “Same time tomorrow,” he decrees, and vanishes down the hall.

Shiro watches him go, incredulity bubbling in his stomach, before all he can do is fall flat on his back and close his eyes.

What a man. What a mess.

And yet-

And yet he can’t wait to see him tomorrow night.


	3. Chapter 3

"How'd you learn martial arts?" Shiro tucks the end of his hand wrap into his palm and looks up at Keith.

Keith glances up from his stretches, the long ridge of his spine picked out by the faded tank top he wears. His rumpled hair practically begs for a hand to card through it, and the dark circles beneath his eyes gleam purple in the harsh overhead lights. 

"I had a bad temper after my father died," he says, "so I was enrolled at a local karate dojo to try to teach me discipline. Turned out I had a talent for it, but I-" his mouth twists, all of him hunching inward like a wounded animal, "-I moved a lot, and for me to keep training meant I had to use whatever schools were around." Small wonder he bucks any order or hint of command; he's probably never had a long-term relationship with any authority figure, much less one he was required to trust to survive. "I have the basics of a lot of styles, but I haven't mastered any of them."

"So you have good fundamentals," Shiro says, pushing himself to his feet and joining Keith on the mats. "And you have a lot to draw on to surprise your enemies in combat, besides how strong you are for your size."

"But I'm not as good as you." Keith gives Shiro a once-over, his eyes a bit dark - anger, interest, Shiro can't tell. "Teach me that submission hold you used."

"Sure," Shiro says, but as he starts to move behind Keith, Keith's fingers clench into fists. He twists to keep an eye on Shiro, his mouth taut. The urge to run ripples across his skin. Shiro halts, keeps his open hands where Keith can see them. The other man seems sharper suddenly, all vicious angles, wild-eyed.

"If you're not comfortable-"

"The longer we talk, the worse it gets," Keith snarls, his voice thick, "so just do it already, would you?"

"No." Shiro doesn't mean the word to be so harsh a command, but Keith jerks, stares at him with some awful mix of emotion he can't name. "I can't teach you if I don't know what's going on, because if I don't have the intel, things have a way of going sideways."

Keith grits his teeth. His fists creak open, but his stance remains wide, his feet planted as if ready to bull his way through Shiro. "I don't-" Shiro has to strain to hear his voice, a whisper threaded with confused anger, "I don't know what's going on with me." He swallows, the intensity in his heartsick expression daring Shiro to comment. "I don't like someone at my back, and I don’t like having to wait for someone to touch me." 

Waiting? But he seems to invite touch as much as a bag of knives; he's always circulated around the outside of the group, has never returned Hunk's exuberant fistbumps or participated in Lance's attempts to form a secret Voltron handshake. Keith's made it seem to all the world like human interaction beyond the practical is a burden to be shouldered only grudgingly, and cast off as soon as possible.

"Is it the anticipation of being touched?" Shiro ventures, easing back down onto the mats. This isn't the sort of conversation he wants to have in a fighting stance. "The knowing someone is going to touch you?" 

Keith drops to the mat, knobby knees, dusted in dark hair and bruises, tucked up before him. "I guess?" His gaze is fixed to Shiro's hands, splayed on the mats, and his voice rich in self-loathing and confusion. "People didn't touch me unless we were fighting, and I'm not used to it, it seems like it's-"

"Going to hurt?"

Keith shakes his head. "I- can we just go back to teaching me the hold?" Even asking pains him, his shoulders hunching inward. Shiro's never wanted to hear a plea in that rough voice less.

To deny him seems monumental, as though he's telling Keith he doesn't trust him, and he can't have that hanging between them. But he can't allow himself to teach Keith the hammerlock when Keith is this tense and miserable, because the last thing he wants to do is harm. Then, a flash of memory - dawn in the desert, and his hand on Keith's, the flicker of surprised awe on Keith's face.

"Come here," he says at last, low, and watches Keith place himself, cross-legged, hands - back in fists - propped on his knees. There’s still distance between them, enough space for Keith to hurl himself into Shiro, should he feel trapped. The radiant heat of Keith's body presses against Shiro's skin. This close, the violet of his eyes stuns, even reluctant as they are to meet Shiro's own. 

"Look at me," Shiro says, and Keith's gaze jerks back to him. "I know the issue."

Keith withdraws, coiling into himself, his jaw taut. A live wire or a ticking bomb.

"You tell yourself you don't want to be touched." Keith opens his mouth, but Shiro plunges on, "You tell yourself that because it's easier than admitting you're starving for it. But because you've gone so long without, having to wait for it must be torture, because they could decide to take it away, or worse, they could follow through. They could overwhelm you with it, and that must hurt, doesn’t it? That something so small could mean so much."

"What-"

"I noticed it the day we met. The second I touched you, you didn't know what to do with yourself. Even a handshake was almost too much."

Keith growls, and some ancient feral thing flashes in the depths of his eyes. "Bullshit."

"I'll prove it. Put out your hand."

Keith's fists jerk open, finger by finger. He holds Shiro's gaze, brows low, jaw clenched, yanks his right hand off his knee, and thrusts it into the space between them. His hand floats there, palm-up and pale, knuckles bruised and split, old carbon burns licking across one finger. 

Keith's hand trembles. His shoulders rise almost up around his ears, his other hand white-knuckled on his knee, and the expression he turns on Shiro is awful: nausea and longing and terror all at once.

"Well?" Keith manages, almost managing to seem bored. 

Shiro reaches for Keith's hand, slow, steady. The situation reminds him of the first contact manuals they had to read in field school, the part about hostile alien races; Keith's discomfort intensifies with every millimeter’s loss between them. 

Keith hunches into himself, the muscles of his arms strung tight and quivering beneath his skin, his lips drawing back into a snarl. Shiro is no better: sweat beads cold on the back of his neck, his stomach a sour pit. Blood roars in his ears.

Then, contact, the heat of skin against skin. It's been so long, out here in the black, without a human touch, and Shiro, selfishly, glories in the moment.

Keith's breathing hitches, eyes gone wide - a flicker of yellow? - he jolts back -

Shiro's already caught him, cinched fingers about the delicate bones of his wrist, thumb pressed into the veins beating purple beneath his skin.

"Easy," Shiro murmurs. He doesn't move, but for the slow sweep of his thumb across the thin skin of Keith's inner wrist. He watches the realization - of his position, of control, of being touched - shiver across Keith's skin. Keith's eyes narrow, muscle cording beneath Shiro's hand as he seems to prepare himself to lunge.

"Easy." Shiro tightens his grip, rotates it so the overlap of his fingers is facing upward, so Keith can see: he has an out, should he really want it.

Keith's gaze darts from Shiro's face to his hand and back again. If he were a cat, his ears would be pinned back, tail lashing, unsure whether to fight or flee. His chest jerks, his harsh breaths the only sound in the room. His heart drums a tattoo against Shiro's fingers. Then, he swallows, and tugs at Shiro's grip. Shiro glances up at where Keith's gaze is fixed on the join of their hands, and just as he's about to let go - Keith isn't using anywhere near his full strength, but maybe this is a test to see if Shiro will keep his word? - Keith just... stops. 

He sighs, a faint rasp at the tail of it, and on his exhalation, his wrist falls loosely in the circle of Shiro's fingers. The scars on the back of his fingers catch at Shiro's wrists. Then, wonder of wonders, his eyelids drift shut, veiling that dark purple that reminds Shiro of nights in the desert, sunsets smeared across the deepening sky. His slim shoulders drop, inch by inch. 

Shiro swallows down any urge to move or speak. Pride, something he's almost forgotten, warms him through. He did this, he was able to coax Keith into pliancy, into trusting him this far. Keith closed his eyes for him, is, even as he's watching, unknotting, unwinding, his free hand sprawling lax across his knee, palm-up: vulnerable. 

Silence unfurls around them. They breathe, and the pulse beneath Shiro's fingers eases into quiet rhythm. Shiro dares to let his hand, with Keith's wrist still within it, settle on his knee; the pain in his shoulder quiets.

At the motion, Keith shifts, brow knitting. He shifts, starts to draw back, eyelids trembling.

"Keep still," Shiro whispers, and presses his thumb to Keith's wrist, the pulse there slowing at the touch. He's ready for the instinctive withdrawal, but Keith settles back to the mat as if he's been waiting for someone to tell him he can.

He watches Keith for long minutes, cataloging the minute changes in him: the settling of his shoulders, the way his clenched jaw loosens into an expression approaching peace, the lock of dark hair slipping out from behind his ear to sway in his breath.

His hand itches to tuck it back, to touch Keith's solemn still face, to grasp his other wrist and see if it draws him deeper. But then the urge fades as he is enraptured by the harsh planes and angles of Keith's face, relaxed now. All of his attention is swept up in the faint dusting of freckles across Keith's nose from days in the sun, the barest hint of lines at the corners of his eyes, the flush rising across the bridge of his nose, the cut of his cheekbones beneath the darkened crescent moons of his eyelashes.

Something wild and fragile and infinitely precious rests in the net of his fingers. He half-doesn't know what to do with this, with himself. The crushing weight of anxiety and responsibility lessens. He has nothing to do and nowhere to be but here, watching Keith, keeping him safe.

It's a lightness of spirit he thought he'd lost long ago.

Keith blinks open his eyes, hazy now, to study his hand, and Shiro's hand, and the way they fit together on Shiro's knee. Surprise washes across his expression, but he says nothing, only allows the weight of his hand to remain on Shiro's. He's a different man entirely like this: loose, unburdened, something approaching free. 

"All right," he says, voice low, the rasp of ancient mistrust replaced with quiet certainty. "You've proven your point."

Shiro opens his hand, and Keith takes back his own to place it on his knee. They lock gazes, and Shiro breaks first. Easy to remember, now, that Keith has lived with silence for years.

"Do you feel better?" Dumb question, but Keith's gaze warms.

"Yeah, I do." He cocks his head and looks Shiro over. "You look like you do, too."

Shiro reaches up to scratch his head, reflexively offering, "I'm fine, really-"

"Bullshit," Keith says, his tone still easy but his eyes sharp, all fog gone from his gaze.

Shiro blinks. He drops his hands back to his knees. What's he supposed to say to that? The man doth protest too much.

"You're commanding an army of three teenage recruits and me in a battle against an ten-thousand-year-old evil empire," Keith says, and all his ease is gone now. He's intent, sharp-eyed, the strength of his regard pinning Shiro to the mat as surely as an arrow. "You're how old? Mid-twenties? And the rest of the universe has turned to you to save it."

Shiro shrugs. His words have fled him. "The job came to me."

"And that's enough to make this worth it? You've barely recovered from what the Galra did to you, and now this?" Keith leans forward, fearless, that hazy sweetness Shiro had glimpsed gone entirely.

Nobody's dissected Shiro like this in- years, probably, maybe not since Adam. At the Garrison he was too much the golden boy, always too good at what he did, always capable of hiding his problems with a grin and some tricky maneuver to wow the brass. No one usually took the time to care about his well-being, and to be honest Shiro tried to avoid thinking about it as well: unfair or not, pilots who were ever less than cheerful and mission-focused had a way of being grounded.

"If not me, then who else? We're the only ones who can pilot Voltron, and it doesn't seem like any other resistance movements have made headway. We're it." 

Keith makes a sound low in his throat. His eyes burn, and Shiro shifts, a bit uncomfortable at being the focus of all this intensity. Keith doesn't seem to recognize the motion for what it is - years in the desert, alone, again - and says, 

"True. I'd fight this war with or without the rest of you - I've seen what people obsessed with control can do, and I won't let that happen again." The curl of a lip, exposing something uncomfortably like a fang. "But who helps you? You hunt me down in the observation deck, you train the others when you can. Who helps you?"

"Eh." Shiro rubs at the back of his head. "I mean, I don't really need help, I've got pretty good coping skills-"

"Stop stalling," Keith says, flat. 

"I'm not stalling-"

"And you're a shitty liar," Keith interrupts, though the beginning of a grin tugs at his mouth.

Damn it, Shiro's enraptured again, just at the promise of a smile. He huffs, but can't stop himself returning the smile.

"Fine, you're right, I'm a bad liar. My friends at the Garrison would always try to shuffle me to the back of the crowd whenever we got caught breaking curfew, they knew I'd break first."

Keith slides onto his side on the mat, all liquid grace, and favors Shiro with a skeptical gaze. "You broke curfew in Arroyo Township? What the hell for? There isn't anything there other than a shit honky tonk and Jose's Diner." His tank-top has ridden up against the mat, exposing the jut of a sharp hipbone, the faintest whisper of dark hair beneath his navel, and Shiro's throat is bone-dry.

"Not for Arroyo Township, God no. We'd go to Santa Fe to go clubbing on the weekends."

"You're kidding." The quirk has become a full smile, and Keith is so lovely Shiro's chest aches with it. "You, a club kid?"

Shiro flops onto the mat, folding his arms behind his head. "I was actually a pretty good dancer. My life isn't all piloting." He pauses. "Just mostly."

It gets the expected chuckle, but then Keith's smile drops. He sits up, hands fisted at the hems of his shorts. There's hair in his eyes, and if Shiro were foolish, if he were a braver man, he'd reach out, push it back so he could settle his hand on Keith's neck, try to coax out another of those shudders. Keith squares his shoulders. Leans forward. "I didn't forget the question. Who helps you?"

Shiro has to close his eyes against the cut-glass intensity in Keith's expression, the ferocity burning in his eyes. Sometimes, in the right light, at the right angle, Keith looks different, drawn thin in his solitude, until it seems like something ancient and predatory radiates through him. In another world, he would have been thought more than human.

Silence shudders between them, a plucked guitar string.

"Honestly." The fluorescent lights burn bright through his eyelids. Keith's gaze scorches hotter against the side of his face. "Honestly, this helps. This gives me something else to think about, to look forward to, knowing that at the end of the day I get to come here and spend time with someone who just wants me to teach them to fight. It makes the world feel simple."

Shiro opens his eyes to find Keith where he left him. His brow is furrowed, something - disappointment? - flickering over his face, clouds on a pond. But Keith notices him, nods.

"All right." He springs to his feet from a crouch and shakes out his arms, staring down at Shiro in challenge. "Teach me the hammerlock."

Shiro eases himself to his feet, but he can't - for the life of him - stop thinking he's missed something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not terribly happy with this chapter, but I wanted to get something out. Please feel free to leave comments or criticism, should you feel inclined to do so!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos, and reblogs on Tumblr are all loved!


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